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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24489115">Ambrose and Pyotr in Vienna, 1881</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacGuffin_Man/pseuds/MacGuffin_Man'>MacGuffin_Man</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Classical Music RPF, Pyotr Tchaikovsky, Real Person Fiction</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Canon Gay Character, Classical Music, Concerts, Gay, Historical, Inspired by Real Events, M/M, Queer History, Queer Themes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 04:26:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,417</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24489115</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacGuffin_Man/pseuds/MacGuffin_Man</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Vienna, December 1881. As I explore the "city of dreams" I become acquainted with a talented composer as his Violin Concerto, and his feelings, receive their premiere...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky/Undisclosed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Ambrose and Pyotr in Vienna, 1881</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Humbly, I admit that I have travelled the world and have seen countless indescribable things that I will never forget. Even if I told you half of the stuff I saw, you wouldn’t believe most of them because your mind would be preoccupied with a thousand questions; the main ones being: “Who the hell are you?” and “Where on Earth did you get that tattoo?”</p><p>However, ashamedly I had yet to fully appreciate Vienna in all of its fascinating glory. Austria had only suited me as an area that I passed through in order to get to some other destination elsewhere. A late bloomer to the Viennese culture, I decided to spend some time in the “city of dreams” during the first week of December, 1881. There had been an avalanche en route of my forthcoming carriage and had unfortunately killed both horse and driver (I was quite sure he was a predator of some sorts, given by the way he talked to his horse about women - he referred to them as ‘fertiles’). Rather than be squeezed into a pedestrian carriage with a bunch of potentially unhygienic passengers and risk catching a disease in time for Christmas, I chose to wait a week for a replacement private vehicle. It gave me the perfect opportunity to explore a place that only existed as a postcard in my expectations.</p><p>Upon my first day I explored as much as I could before the snowfall turned from pleasant to blinding. After I had slipped down a flight of stairs outside St. Stephen’s cathedral for the fourth time, I concluded that the full moon in the night sky was reminding me of the time. Maybe I could make the most of my evening by retiring to a bar, find a room, and potentially hook up with someone - not that the last idea was a priority, but it would take my mind of my aching back (or possibly break it).</p><p>A bar that caught my attention was The White Stag; not that I knew what to expect from Viennese standards but the painting of the stag on the tavern’s sign outside was drawn with spectacular overly-compensating muscles. I guessed that staying somewhere with an owner who was self-conscious about their masculinity would be a sensible idea. I am a man myself, though not as confident a man as that stag though.</p><p>After stepping inside and making the appropriate arrangements about rooms, I sat down at the bar on a high-stool with a gin and tonic (served with a slice of lime to balance with the quinine’s sweetness) and a plate of Wiener schnitzel (they were very adamant about their culture just as much as every other country that I’ve visited). I felt a bit disappointed, I had only explored Vienna for a day and I felt like there was nothing else to do. I didn’t have a lot of money to spend and making friends wasn’t my strongest skill (hence why hooking up isn’t a priority for me most of the time). I walked around the bar and couldn’t find anyone worth talking to; everyone had closed themselves off into their drinks and private thoughts, only showing a non-reflective glare that echoed louder than the bells of St. Stephen’s. Nobody stood out… except one…</p><p>Funnily enough, he also sat with a gin and tonic (with a slice of lime, same as me!) at a small table adjacent to the fireplace. He was concentrating on something, but not on a physical body in the room. His eyes were fixed upon something that he could see playing and replaying in the vestiges of his mind, and his right hand was moving along with it. The brightness in his eyes increased and decreased with his hand gestures, only restricted by the fine fabric that accompanied his tweed suit, complimented by a bow tie that, in every respect, was cool. The little trembles in the corner of his mouth betrayed his confined emotions as restrained joy and concealed happiness burst from his tiny mannerisms. His smiles were surrounded by stubble that could one day evolve into a mighty beard that would make a camera remember it without a photographer’s hand. My own mind came to a conclusion that explained the correlation happening before me: he had to be a musician.</p><p>I was begging for something compelling to talk about with him. He could tell me about the music he was hearing in his head, whether it was his own or someone he admired. I had been fond of many great musicians that I had the pleasure to meet in my lifetime. Paganini, Wagner, Mozart, Bach (although I couldn’t remember which one). But alas, my inner anxiety that kept me hidden from the world bullied me into restriction and I turned to walk away. I thought it best to have another drink and turn in for the night. But that plan was soon tossed away into the snow as nobody, not even the buff stag’s painter, could have predicted what happened next.</p><p>*****</p><p>“Are you going to order another drink?” The music-man asked as he pulled up a stool next to me at the bar.</p><p>Taken aback, an avalanche of thoughts charged through my mind. But I quickly regained my mental composure and prepared a socially acceptable witty response. “Why? Are you buying?”</p><p>“Only if you’ll drink it with me. Not a lot of people ask for lime with their gin.”</p><p>“Well it does bring balance with the quinine.”</p><p>“Exactly!” He turned his empty glass upside-down and knocked it twice on the bar to grab the server’s attention. “Two more please, and if you could, another plate of that schnitzel, it’s simply delicious!”</p><p>His lightheartedness assured me that he was somebody I could have a nice chat with, but I wanted to test his sense of humour first. “To be honest, I’m not especially a fan of their veal. It’s a bit dry.”</p><p>“Yeah, but they’re really proud of it. If we make them think that we don’t want more they might raise the drink prices!”</p><p>We shared a chuckle between us, before our drinks were brought to us. Returning to the warmness of the fireplace, we sat down and had a conversation. I started:</p><p>“So let’s get the boring niceties out of the way. Who are you? What do you do? And remind me where I’ve seen your face from.”</p><p>“Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky: Composer and you’ve probably heard of me”.</p><p>It all came flooding back to me. I had heard of Tchaikovsky in conversation when discussing up-and-coming artists with my friends, I had seen his face in the newspapers when I read the occasional concert review. Unfortunately, I hadn’t had the pleasure of hearing his music properly. My line of work gave me little time to appreciate my musical hobbies except during rest periods in the Winter. Winter concerts were few and far between and were cancelled usually last minute, either due to dwindling attendees, heaps of snow blocking roads for travelling audience-members or the occasional syphilis contraction catching up with a headline soloist. During one of my visits to Moscow I had seen flyers for “Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake” ballet, but I had heard a lot of mixed reviews from my patrons there and I had a very important job to get back to in the western Europe.</p><p>We began talking about music and how powerful of a tool it could be. Pyotr’s eyes lit up as he talked: “Ever since I was a boy I wanted to give myself to music. I was never really good at anything else, and the ‘anything else’ I was good made me miserable. The only person I could really talk to about it was my brother. He always made sure to keep me going; in fact I went so far that I’ve got myself a premiere here in Vienna!”</p><p>“That’s fantastic. When is it? I’m here for a bit and need something to make my stay more memorable.”</p><p>“The 4th, at the Musikverein. It’s my first violin concerto!”</p><p>“Wow! Who have you got as a soloist?”</p><p>“Aldoph Brodsky. He was a bit last minute since-“</p><p>He cut himself off, and suddenly the twinkle in his eyes left him like a cloud casting a shadow. He took a sip from his drink without realising the glass was empty. An awkward silence fell and not wanting to lose the momentum of the most wonderful conversation I had had since coming here, I began: “The snow’s starting to fall harder, mind you I bet Russia has its fair share of snow!”</p><p>“Yeah, it’s a bit of a daily occurrence to tell you the truth.” He sounded like he wanted the conversation to continue, but mentioning the violin soloist had really struck a nerve with him.</p><p>“I’ve been to Russia a few times,” I mentioned. “St. Petersburg was nice, would definitely go there again.”</p><p>“You wouldn’t want to live there.” Pyotr snarled as he stared into the dying embers of the fire. This change of character really worried me - in fact it frightened me. What had happened in the last 30 seconds? That warm and stimulating conversation we were having meant the world to us but now it had vanished. I got up and picked up a log to throw onto the fire. “Could you past me the poker?” I asked reaching a hand out. As I turned my head, I noticed that Pyotr’s hands were busy with themselves. The thumb of his right hand was rubbing the bridge of his left hand’s ring finger. Did that mean anything? And if it did, then what?</p><p>But Pyotr came to his senses and reached round behind him to grab the poker from the set of fire tools. Once the flames got going again I returned to the table. The fingers of my mind were flicking through various smalltalk starters to keep everything going again, and after a few seconds of mental juggling I asked: “So what’s there to do in Vienna?”</p><p>Pyotr regained his serenity and began to stroke his stubbly chin. “Well, I guess the Wien river in the Stadtpark is nice to walk along in the afternoon. I take it you haven’t been here that long.” His voice came across a lot calmer than it had previously; I was relieved as I hated leaving conversations on sour notes.</p><p>“Nah, I arrived today. I’m here for a week until my replacement carriage makes its eventual appearance.”</p><p>“You’ve got a place to stay then?”</p><p>“I’m sorted here at the stag. The muscles will keep me safe.”</p><p>Pyotr sniggered, “Sorry, the what?!”</p><p>“You’ve seen the size of those muscles on the sign outside, they’ll keep any harm at bay let me tell you that!” We laughed ourselves to bits so hardly that one of the silent patrons raised an eyebrow in disscontempt. After wiping the tears from our eyes, we paused and simply looked at each other before relishing in a few hidden chuckles.</p><p>“What I would give to have muscles like that.” I said, staring into the shining anticipating eyes of the talent sitting across from me. “I’d have all the confidence in the world.”</p><p>“No you don’t. I think you’re pretty confident with what you have already.”</p><p>“And what’s that?” I joked, not expecting much of an answer.</p><p>“A kind-hearted personality?”</p><p>I tried to keep myself from blushing but it wouldn’t help how overwhelmingly self-conscious I became all of a sudden. </p><p>“I don’t think anyone- girls, they’re not interested in that.”</p><p>I stared down into my empty glass, playing with the wedge of lime sliding around the bottom. Pyotr, took a pause, and softly said in the most gentle of tone:</p><p>“Well I am.”</p><p>We stared at each other for the longest time. Just taking in the essence of the moment. To me, I was looking at more than just a talented composer, I was sharing a moment with a true human being. I wanted nothing more than to hug him, and if I could read minds (which I can’t, by the way - I have many talents but not that) I would have believed that he would have wanted to hug me too. But we were out in public, and it wasn’t acceptable for two men to embrace one another in such a way out in the open - especially if this was a famous composer about to attend an important premiere.</p><p>I replied with a “Thank you” and continued to gaze at him. I wanted to tell him how wonderful I found his company, that there was no-one else in the world that I would rather talk to right now; but before I could we both heard the bell and “Last orders” from the bartender.</p><p>*****</p><p>Pyotr was the first to stand up. “I believe that’s my cue.” (it took me a second to realise that he may have intended it to be a cheeky musical pun).</p><p>“I’ll be exhausted from the final rehearsal tomorrow so I probably won’t be here afterwards, but I’d love to chat to you after the concert if you’re still planning to go.”</p><p>“Yes, I’d love that!” I made sure he heard my confirmation.</p><p>“Excellent. I can tell you for sure that you’re much nicer to talk to than those critics! Always nitpicking and trying to find logical reasons to everything. Not that I’m against criticism, but there’s a time and place, you know.”</p><p>The stairs to the rooms were positioned next to the entrance, and before we parted ways we shook hands.</p><p>“It was a pleasure to meet you… I’m terribly sorry I never caught your name?”</p><p>“Ambrose. It was such a wonderful conversation. One that I hope to pick up soon.”</p><p>“Of course. I’ll see you at the premiere the day after tomorrow.”</p><p>We paused briefly before Pyotr turned to open the door and make his way into the snow. The wind had died down and the street was silent. As I climbed my way up the stairs into my room, out of my clothes and into the just-about-comfortable bed I pictured Pyotr’s face. I pondered on the kindness in his words, the twinkle in his eyes, the song in his laughter. After a while, I found myself surprised at my hands that were making a conducting motion as I played and replayed our chat, just like he did. I grinned an array of little smiles with tiny giggles as I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.</p>
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